Janet Fitch
What is writer’s block? Fear and an absence of inspiration. the feeling of having lost your connection to your unconscious processes. You’re afraid what you’re writing isn't as wonderful as you’d hoped. But perfectionism is the killer of artists. It’s what my last novel Paint It Black is largely about. It's knowing how great literature can be, and fearing that what one produces doesn't measure up.
The first antidote is getting it that it will never measure up. Ever. You’re doing something hard, and you will fail significantly. And that’s part of it. There’s no upper end with how good art can be. Admit it and then work anyway.
In Paint it Black, the protagonist, Josie, is a punk rocker. And the essence of punk rock is, “Forget perfection. I don’t need anybody’s seal of approval, just get out there and make a sound.” While her boyfriend, Michael, grew up in the household of a classical musician, who tells him he's not good enough to be an artist-- "There's no such thing as a good-enough classical pianist, there are too many geniuses." And it paralyzes him, and contributes to his suicide.
When I feel writer’s block breathing down my neck, I give myself permission to go out and be lousy. As long as I am expressing something that I really feel, that I really care about, I am creating art. If I have that deep connection to my unconscious, I stop worrying about it. I can make it good later.
So that’s the first part. Now, the connection to the unconscious. When I feel flat, when I feel l uninspired. I feed my head. Music, film, art, books--not just time-passers, but things that energize me, make me want to respond to their creativity with my own. Non-purposeful writing–free writing, poetry, writing from prompts, a photograph, a piece music—finds pockets of authentic creativity, that unconscious place where I feel passionate, where language reverberates the strings of who I am.
I might do a sort of guided meditation, imagine a quiet space, and then a character coming to talk to me in that space. Sometiems I prepare a list of questions, and go into that quiet space in my mind, a garden usually, and visualize my character coming to talk to me. And ask her or him the questions. “What am I not seeing about this scene? What am I missing about you?” Even little details that help me understand them better: "What was your favorite thing in high school, what did you fight with your parents about, what was your most humiliating moment? What are your beliefs about free will and destiny?”
When I'm stuck in a difficult scene, I might write from another character’s point of view. I might change person and tense. Or skip ahead to a scene I can actually see, and come back later on.
If I'm having story problems, I'll step back and ask myself: “What the heck am I trying to say here?” “What does she want out of this scene?” “Where’s the change?”
The longer I write, the less prone to blockage I become, because I have developed strategies that work for me, and experience that they're not permanent, eventually you find a way.
The first antidote is getting it that it will never measure up. Ever. You’re doing something hard, and you will fail significantly. And that’s part of it. There’s no upper end with how good art can be. Admit it and then work anyway.
In Paint it Black, the protagonist, Josie, is a punk rocker. And the essence of punk rock is, “Forget perfection. I don’t need anybody’s seal of approval, just get out there and make a sound.” While her boyfriend, Michael, grew up in the household of a classical musician, who tells him he's not good enough to be an artist-- "There's no such thing as a good-enough classical pianist, there are too many geniuses." And it paralyzes him, and contributes to his suicide.
When I feel writer’s block breathing down my neck, I give myself permission to go out and be lousy. As long as I am expressing something that I really feel, that I really care about, I am creating art. If I have that deep connection to my unconscious, I stop worrying about it. I can make it good later.
So that’s the first part. Now, the connection to the unconscious. When I feel flat, when I feel l uninspired. I feed my head. Music, film, art, books--not just time-passers, but things that energize me, make me want to respond to their creativity with my own. Non-purposeful writing–free writing, poetry, writing from prompts, a photograph, a piece music—finds pockets of authentic creativity, that unconscious place where I feel passionate, where language reverberates the strings of who I am.
I might do a sort of guided meditation, imagine a quiet space, and then a character coming to talk to me in that space. Sometiems I prepare a list of questions, and go into that quiet space in my mind, a garden usually, and visualize my character coming to talk to me. And ask her or him the questions. “What am I not seeing about this scene? What am I missing about you?” Even little details that help me understand them better: "What was your favorite thing in high school, what did you fight with your parents about, what was your most humiliating moment? What are your beliefs about free will and destiny?”
When I'm stuck in a difficult scene, I might write from another character’s point of view. I might change person and tense. Or skip ahead to a scene I can actually see, and come back later on.
If I'm having story problems, I'll step back and ask myself: “What the heck am I trying to say here?” “What does she want out of this scene?” “Where’s the change?”
The longer I write, the less prone to blockage I become, because I have developed strategies that work for me, and experience that they're not permanent, eventually you find a way.
More Answered Questions
Paul Richardson
asked
Janet Fitch:
Janet: Fascinated to hear about your new book. Will definitely call out to the interview on our FB page... Perhaps you have heard about our project? For The Children of 1917, we (Russian Life magazine) traveled thousands of kilometers around Russia, interviewing Russians born in 1917. Oh, the stories they had to tell. Look forward to reading your book. Best, PR
Katy
asked
Janet Fitch:
White Oleander is one of my most beloved books, I read it every spring. It taught me a lot as a human and a baby writer. I love and I hate Ingrid. I'm fascinated by her. I'd love to know more about where she came from, what created such an unlikely and extraordinary person. Other than the tiny titbits offered in the book, is there anything you can share about her family/upbringing?
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